Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ashford Meadow was quiet. Squires and servants were cleaning up the fields surrounding the castle, trying to rid the air of the stench of blood. There was a strange atmosphere permeating the muddy tracks that connect the tents of the houses, as if the trial had not yet reached its tragic conclusion. Knights were whispering among themselves, recounting the events of the past hour while stable boys and porters flitted between them.

Did you see the prince? 

His own brother…

How awful!.

Such tragedy. Such utter tragedy.

In one of the tents, Dunk lay quietly. His body was wracked with pain, his side hurting, his head pounding. Candles were scattered around the hard cot he was lying on, illuminating the room in soft light. The scent of herbs and healing oils wafted through the air, soothing Dunk’s aching lungs. The multiple hits against his ribs and sternum were slowly making themselves known, speading like fire through his torso. Never in his life had he been in this much pain, not even during his time following Ser Arlan through the countryside, desperately trying not to be left behind by the man.

Get up!

He sighed, causing a sharp pain to shoot down his side. His brow furrowed.

Dunk had been alone for some time now, Egg had been summoned to the Halls, in conference with his father and brothers, he was sure. Before he left, he had assured Dunk that he would be back, to make sure he was alright. That he would come back to be his squire, as if the past was past and all but forgotten. Dunk did not expect him to actually be allowed to. It was neither wise nor acceptable in any way. After all, it was Dunk’s fault prince Baelor was dead. He had been an honorable man. A good man. If Dunk had not accepted the trial of seven. His death had been avoidable. If he had simply accepted his fate. How prideful, how foolish of him to think of himself as capable enough to win without consequence. To rise above a noble. A prince. Life did not spare a simple hedge knight. Did he truly believe he could defeat Aerion with naught but faith in himself. Faith that he was doing the right thing? The honorable thing?

Dunk did not expect Egg to return. Maekar would never let him. To squire for the brute that had his brother killed? An unimaginable thing.

Dunk just hoped he could get well soon enough to leave Ashford Meadow. He could not stand the place, the stench of death that followed him, absorbed into his skin. He would never be able to rid himself of it.

If he had only accepted his place as a lowly knight, a nobody. If he had only realized sooner that there is nothing more dangerous than an angered prince. If he had only ignored Egg’s call for help. He could have avoided the trial, had he simply not punched a prince in the face. Never before had Dunk doubted his own morals, yet in the face of a dead prince, his heart had no other choice. Baelor’s death had been avoidable. If there was one thing his soul knew, is that he had royally fucked up. How could he ever forgive himself?

With a quiet groan, Dunk shifted on the cot, slowly trying to sit up. He had to get out of this tent, get some fresh air. The oils and candle wax was suffocating. The heat unbearable.

Pain shot through his right side as Dunk pushed himself up. His left hand, bandaged and pulsing in time with his heart, lay uselessly at his side. He could still vividly feel the knife that pierced through his palm, the lance that pierced his stomach, the hits and punches that knocked the air out if his lungs- Dunk shook his head. He had to get the hell out of here.

On unsteady legs, he hefted himself upwards and slowly made his way towards one of the chairs. Over its back, his wet undershirt lay, slowly dripping water onto the floor. One of the healers had briefly washed it after he had been carried in, he was told. After the trial, the fabric had been soaked through with blood, sticking to his wounds and clinging to his skin in the places it had begun to dry. He had only been dimly aware of hands on his back, grabbing the undershirt and lifting it off him in swift, urgent movements to make sure the healer had quick access to the bleeding wounds underneath.

Dunk grabbed the shirt with shaking hands and tried to lift it over his head. The cool fabric made him shudder as it landed on his forehead. For a moment he contemplated simply staying like this, letting the cold water of the shirt drip onto his face and down his neck. The cool drops sent pleasant shivers along his back. Did he develop a fever over the past hours? An infection? His skin felt too hot and stretched tight over his bones. A drop of sweat formed between his brows and he tried lifting his arm higher. He had to get that damned shirt on. He needed to get out of here.

The flames of the candles around hin flickered in the darkness of the evening light.

Why was it so godsdamned hot in here?

Dunk huffed in exasperation. The shirt was too wet, his arms shaking with the effort to lift a simple piece of wet fabric. A spark of anger flared up in Dunk’s heart. Why could nothing be even the slightest bit easy today. In a huff of frustration he let it fall back on the arm of the chair and turned to leave. No matter. He didn’t need a shirt. It was way too hot anyways. The pair of pants and heavy boots he was still wearing simply had to be enough for the folk outside.

As he lifted one side of the tent’s flap, he squinted his eyes, the setting sun shining directly into his face. The clouds that had covered the sky and had painted to jousting field in shades of grey and black earlier that day had dissipated over the few hours he had been treated in the tent. A sharp pain continued to shoot down his side as he made his way onto the muddy paths connecting the tents of the different houses. Nobody seemed to pay him any mind. In fact, many stragglers hurrying back and forth from the halls of Ashford Meadows and the jousting field appeared to avoid even glancing at Dunk, their gazes shifting as soon as they noticed his large frame in front of the healer’s tent. Sunk let out a relieved sigh. He had feared that stepping foot outside would be cause enough for a punch to his already battered face. Perhaps a metal chalice thrown at his head.

The sun shone like wildfire through the encampment, illuminating the swords and armor stacked along the sides of the pathway in rays of yellow and white. The silver of the metal was gleaming in the sunlight, almost like-

Dunk did not want to think about Aerion and his wicked little smile, his white hair and bright violet eyes. He did not want to think about the way he wielded his flail with such dangerous self-confidence, no regard for the harm he might cause. Delighting in its possibilities, even. Dunk hated him. Or he should hate him. But did he? After all the had done? After the harm he had caused? Dunk still, after everything, did not know if he was capable of hatred. He strongly disagreed with Aerion’s actions, he despised them. The unjust pain caused by a prince of the realm made his skin crawl. Aerion was a trained knight. Should he not protect those weaker than him? And was it not Dunk’s fate as a knight himself to stop harm from coming towards anyone undeserving.

Was Aerion deserving of it? Dunk did not know. He had hurt him in the tournament. No, their fight had not given Dunk any sort of pleasure. Hurting the prince was not an act of gratification or even one of justice. It was one of fear, of raw terror and the primal need for survival. He had had no time to think or take a moment to breathe. To survive meant to harm. There had been nothing else to it.

It seemed, Dunk thought in a haze, that he would never understand how someone like Aerion could take such pleasure in inflicting pain.

Dunk slowly walked along the path he knew would lead him to the isolated elm tree he had spent the first few nights sleeping under. He hoped that next to the stream, the heat in his bones would ease up and he would finally be able to take a breath deeper than the shallow huffs of air he managed at the moment. The wound on his side ached and he could feel some of the stitches stretch and rip. He could not care less about any of it. He was so hot. Shouldn’t nightfall ease the day’s heat? Dunk tried to take another deep breath in, but a sharp pain made his chest stutter. Damnit.

The quiet splashing of the stream was the first sound he heard after leaving the encampment. His ears were ringing and beads of sweat were running down the back of Dunk’s neck. It had taken him long, much longer than it should, to reach the small clearing. There was no sign of his two horses that he had tied to a tree branch only days prior. The only sign they had ever been there at all was the hoof prints in the grass surrounding the trunk of the elm tree. Leaves covered the ground he had slept on and hid signs of life that had been there once. Setting up camp here felt like a lifetime ago. Had it really only been a few days?

The gentle splashing of the river at his right drew Dunk’s attention. He was burning up. He had probably caught an infection in one of his many wounds. Wounds caused by a dirty, mud-covered blade, wielded by a cruel prince with hatred in his eyes. Dunk could still remember the look in Aerion’s eyes from across the battlefield. Sat high atop his horse, Aerion had look like the nobleman he was. Regal and upright he had glanced down on the squires and stableboys that had tended to his armor and had handed him his lance. They had hurried away quickly as soon as Aerion was readied for the fight. Dunk supposed that they did not care for being in the man’s presence any longer than strictly necessary. Aerion had a brutal, vicious aura about himself that he flaunted like a cloak about his shoulders. His wicked manner was plain for the folk to see. It was no secret, after all, that the prince reveled in his callous actions and and the fear it caused. His face would brighten with every scared gasp and fearful bow of the head of those Aerion believed to be below him. He looked powerful then, Dunk thought, his mind clouded. He could not help but remember how ethereal Aerion looked with this wicked little grin on his face whenever a servant avoided his line of sight and dipped behind a door or into some tent to get out of his way. His eyes would light up, a hard edge glinting in them that made the man even more beautiful than he already was.

Beautiful?

Dunk stilled.

Where had that thought come from? He must be losing his mind. Perhaps it truly was a fever that he had developed.

Slowly, with careful steps, Dunk made his way towards the edge of the little stream. He sat down with a low groan, his whole body in terrible pain as soon as he began to bend down. His bare chest was glistening with sweat as he looked down. The lose pants he was wearing felt like they were cutting into his skin like tiny blades of steel. Dunk huffed, exasperated. How could even sitting down be such a chore?

He slipped out of his blood-soaked boots with a swift and painful motion, letting out a quiet hum as the cool air hit the heated skin on his bare feet. Finally, the claustrophobia he had felt earlier began to ease. He let his head fall back, turning his face towards the last rays of the sunlight still visible above the treeline in the distance and closed his eyes. The noise of the water in front of him had finally allowed his mind to still. The weight on Dunk’s shoulder lifted as he slowly leaned back into his hands propped up behind him. The memories of the last hours slowly fading into the quiet of nature.

Hot. It was so damned hot.

With a sigh, Dunk stretched his legs until his feet dipped below the surface of the water. The coolness of it was like a shock of lightning to his skin. He almost pulled them back out, but the unease of the cold soon faded and Dunk could relax. A fevered hand lifted to his forehead, wiping away the rivulets of sweat making their way down to his eyes.

Dunk wondered whether Aerion was struggling like him. He hoped the prince was in as much pain and discomfort as Dunk was. It would only be fair. After all, Dunk had won the fight, it was only deserving for Aerion to feel its effects.

Dunk had conquered a dragon. He could still not quite believe it. A small smile stretched across Dunk’s face. He had won. How unexpected. In all honesty, Dunk had expected to die. Aerion had been trained as a fighter since he had been a little boy, taught by the best knights in the kingdom. He knew how to wield a sword, how to hold a shield the right way, how to ride a horse into battle. He must have spent countless hours on a training field, going against warrior after warrior until he could stand his ground. In comparison, Dunk had little experience with fighting. Ser Arlan might have shown him the basics, but horse riding had never been his strength and participating in a joust had been so far out of Dunk’s comfort zone, it makes him dizzy thinking of it.

Aerion had looked so pathetic beneath him as Dunk had raised his shield and brought it down on his face. The visor had snapped up from the blow, revealing the wide eyes beneath the metal. They had been such a mesmerizing shade of violet, Dunk thought, so bright and … elated. Aerion had been grinning madly up at Dunk, not once averting his gaze. He had looked almost euphoric from the fight and showing no sign of pain, though his face was covered in bruises and the teeth behind his smirk were bloody. His lip had been split open too, allowing blood to slowly run down his cheek. Aerion had crackled wildly as the visor revealed his face. It had struck Dunk as insane, as absolutely, utterly inappropriate. Was he not scared of Dunk? Not even when he was on his back, vulnerable and weak? Dunk grit his teeth. Aerion had looked feral. Like a cat trapped under a heavy bolder, yet not ready to give up in the slightest. He was delighting in the chaos of battle, in the pain he must have been in. His piercing gaze had made Dunk pause, just for a second. That had been enough for Aerion to laugh even harder, manic, as he struggled against Dunk’s weight on his chest.

Dunk let his feet fall further into the cool stream. He was developing a headache, it seemed. His head was pounding. His ears ringing. The water, now up to his shins, did nothing to alleviate the burning heat below his skin.

Aerion’s blood had been just as hot when it splattered on his face after another, particularly strong hit with the shield. Dunk could taste the metallic drops on his tongue, then. His breath had hitched. His heart had been pounding in his chest and he couldn’t hear a thing around him. His gaze had been fixed to Aerion’s. They had been in something like a trance, and Dunk couldn’t tear his eyes away. Aerion’s deranged cackle had been the only sound echoing through his brain.

Dunk had not been able to see his hair. The white strands must have been coated with blood. He could see it at the end of the helmet that just so covered Aerion’s hairline. Dunk knew there had been blood there. He just knew it. He should have ripped his helmet off like he had done with his own. Then, he would have seen his hair. He would have seen Aerion in his entirety, muddy, bloody, and hurt. He knew he would have made quite the sight, all disheveled and mad with adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Dunk huffed. He was absolutely losing his mind. He had to be. What other reason would there be for him to have such inappropriate thoughts. And about Aerion of all people. He was a monster, a maniacal prince with a penchant for needless violence, its sole purpose being its ability to make the man feel strong and powerful. To feed his overly large ego, and nothing more.

The fever must be getting to Dunk’s head. It seemed that all he could think about was Aerion – bloody and bruised Aerion grinning up at Dunk in the middle of a muddy battlefield as though Dunk was the center of his universe and simultaneously the most infuriating peasant he had ever had the displeasure of laying his eyes on. In an instant, Aerion’s eyes had been shifting from hatred to amusement and back again. He was so incredibly hard to pin down. Impossible to understand. To Dunk, his actions made no sense whatsoever. And for some reason, this very fact made the other man so intriguing. He got under Dunk’s skin, burrowing deep and carving out a bloody, vicious place of his own among the muscles and sinews holing his flesh in place. There was no getting rid of Aerion’s presence. His piercing eyes and sharp tongue ever present at the back of Dunk’s mind, ready and poised to strike at the least convenient of times.

Like right then, when Dunk was feverish and in pain, struggling to stay awake as the last rays of sunlight bathed the clearing in a warm, melancholic light. The leaves on the trees around the stream seemed to be ablaze, glowing in the light and reflecting it back onto the water’s surface. It shimmered like molten silver.

Dunk exhaled loudly, feeling his skin stretched too tight over his body. He was still so desperately hot, a slowly spreading fever making itself known in his bones. The hand, on which he was still leaning, was starting to smart desperately so he leaned forwards. A wave of nausea overtook him. When was the last time he had eaten? He had vomited everything he had had in his stomach right before the trial, so really, there should be nothing left in his stomach. Dunk was dizzy. He was going to be sick.

Slowly, he slid forward on his bottom, gradually submerging more and more of his legs into the cold water. The heat was truly unbearable, and the dizziness did nothing but make him more miserable. Maybe the cold water would ease his pain and cool his insides.

Once he had all but his head and the tops of his shoulders underwater, Dunk let out a deep groan. This was actually quite nice. Very refreshing. The sharp ache in his side, right where Aerion’s lance pierced his flesh, finally settled and dulled to a gentle throb. He shifted until he was sitting more comfortably in the clear water, feeling sand and small rocks move under him. They scratched across his thighs as the current pulled at Dunk’s pants, worming their way underneath the fabric with the lazy flow of the river. Every muscle in Dunk’s body loosened slowly as the pain gradually lessened. He could stay like this forever. Simply exist here, in this little part of the clearing, soaking in the stream like an overly large water buffalo. Or maybe a bog monster. The way Dunk hummed and grunted in relief, the latter was quite an accurate description of his current state. The dried blood and mud that had stuck to his skin ever since rolling around the jousting field was slowly loosening and was being washed away by the gentle current. He clenched his fist, hissing as pain shot through his palm up to his elbow. The skin on his ring and little finger tingled. He couldn’t feel them well, even the pain stopped short where his middle finger joins his palm. He wondered if he would ever get feeling back in those digits or if Aerion had left another lasting reminder of their fight on Dunk’s body. He wondered if he would ever be rid of the man.

Like a leech, Aerion had settled into the deepest recesses of Dunk’s mind. His violet gaze and crazed grin seemed impossible to escape.

In his haze, distracted by the sparkle of the water’s surface and the odd feeling of numb fingers submerged in the stream, Dunk almost missed the soft footfalls approaching from the same path he had taken earlier. Dunk stilled. Should he stand up? Get ready to defend himself? Maybe one of Maekar’s men was finally looking for him, ready to inflict the punishment he truly should have gotten after causing Baelor’s death.

Even if he was in danger, Dunk thought, there was no way he would be able to right himself and get out of the water. The dizziness that overtook him still had not receded and his legs folded beneath him felt like jelly. He could not get up. Not in time to fend off an attacker, in any case. The muscles in his back tensed. Dunk willed his eyes to focus on the opening of the canopy of trees shading the path back to camp. The footsteps sounded louder, coming nearer.

A shock of white hair was the first thing Dunk spotted, as the man that has plagued his thoughts for so long limped slowly towards the clearing. He was swearing under his breath and looked down at his leg with a scowl.

Aerion.

Dunk’s eyes widened at the sight of him. His eyes falling to the prince’s thigh in an instant.

He vividly remembered slashing the man’s flesh, severing delicate skin and muscle much too close to his crotch. He remembers the spray of blood that followed the cut and the pained scream that ripped from Aerion’s mouth. It had made Dunk’s heart stutter. Yet, even then, there had been this spark of elation in his violet eyes when Dunk had looked back at him. Excitement and exhilaration were clear to see in Aerion’s expression. Dunk remembers thinking that he must be sick in the head to take such unhinged pleasure in trying to kill him. Even after having lost quite a bit of blood, Aerion still seemed just as eager to get back to Dunk. To hit him and beat him and make him regret to ever have laid hands on a prince of the realm. A Targaryen prince. A dragon.

Dunk shudders just thinking back on it. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He should stand up, call out, make himself known.

He remained still as stone, letting the water wash over him and cool his heated body. The frigidity must be working well against the fever, as Dunk, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, could take a full breath in and fix his eyes on Aerion’s advancing frame. Dunk was alert. Even the ringing in his ears had let up. Now, all he could hear were Aerion’s feet hitting the ground unevenly and his own ragged breathing that he tried to keep as quiet as possible.

Aerion must not have seen him sitting in the water, as he didn't even glance in Dunk’s direction. There were bandages wound tightly around the man’s thigh, denting the fabric of the pants that were stretched over them. It looked uncomfortable.

Why was Aerion out here? There was nothing that could possibly need his attention. Not so far away from the keep and his family.

“Fucking fuck”, Aerion muttered. Dunk could finally make out what he was saying. His voice sounded melodic even when swearing like a disgruntled stonemason. The smooth cadence had fascinated him from the first moment they met. It was, after all, in such stark contrast to the man’s shitshow of a personality.

Dunk wanted to slap himself for letting his thoughts stray repeatedly to the man’s body, his lithe, yet muscular frame that had felt scorching hot under his hands. It truly was as if Aerion had settled within Dunk’s mind with every wound he had inflicted on him during the trial. With every hit, Aerion carved his very being deeper into Dunk’s head.

How bothersome, he thought.

Aerion was making his way to the small elm tree. He seemed to be looking for something, as his eyes fixed to the ground and scanned the tall patch of grass. With a sweeping motion of his injured foot, Aerion combed through the edge of the overgrown path that dissolved into a trampled-down patch of wild field a few feet in front of him.

Dunk watched him, following Aerion’s movements with a slight frown on his face. Had he been here before?

On his next sweep, Aerion turned his body further to the right, further towards where Dunk was sitting in the water. Aerion’s gaze was glued to the ground, slightly bending forward to get a better view of it. From this close, Dunk could make out the pinched expression on Aerion’s face. He seemed to be both disgruntled and in quite some pain, judging from the way the man was gritting his teeth every time his bandaged leg moved.

Dunk couldn’t help but grin slightly.

On his next turn, Aerion shifted further towards the edge of the water. He was so close to Dunk by now, it might only be a few feet now. Dunk prayed the prince would just find whatever he had come here for and leave. He tried to stay as still as possible, slouching slightly so his shoulders dipped beneath the water’s edge.

Aerion must have finally seen the movement. He froze, then slowly lifted his head to look directly into Dunk’s eyes. His gaze piercing.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?”

“Your grace”, Dunk said, straightening his back. His shoulders emerged once again from the water. He must look ridiculous, hunched down in the stream as he was.

Aerion squinted his eyes. He seemed to have calmed down since they had last seen each other. At least it appeared so. He didn’t draw a dagger at the very least.

“What in the gods’ name is wrong with you, oaf? Are you lurking in waters now? Careful, you might contaminate them with your stink.” Nevermind, Dunk thought.

He looked down at himself. Most of the dirt and grime had washed off by now. In fact, he was quite clean for his own standards. He didn’t smell any foul odor on himself either. Only the metallic tang of blood and some healing herbs the healer had squished into his wounds before bandaging them up. Could he dirty the water? He had never heard of such a thing before, but he had not yet visited all corners of the realm. There must be some crummy places in the further edges of Westeros that Aerion had heard tales of. Some murky back roads with sewage spilling into rivers and ravines. Was dunk the sewage to Aerion?

“I… I’m not sewage.”

Dunk’s head was starting to pound again. The heat beneath his skin was slowly returning, making his limbs ache more every second.

“What.” It didn’t even sound like a question coming form Aerion, but rather like a statement. One of Dunk’s stupidity, he was sure.

Dunk frowned. What was it that he had said again? His eyes grew hazy for a moment. He was dizzy.

“Nothing”, Dunk mumbled, lowering his head and letting his hands swish back and forth beneath the water. The current’s pull between his fingers felt wonderful. Cool and calming. Aerion’s presence had always made him a bit uneasy. Like he had to be on watch all the time, making sure he wasn’t getting stabbed in the back the second his attention shifted from the man.

“What are you doing here?”, grumbled Dunk, squinting up at Aerion. He was having difficulty making out the man’s expression looking down at him. The sun was setting right behind Aerion now, and was illuminating his silver hair like a halo around his head. His face, in contrast, was in shadow.

Aerion cocked his head to the side, closely examining Dunk. He could feel the prince’s stare on him like a brand. It sent a slight shiver down his back. Dunk’s hands stilled.

“Sorry”, Dunk mumbled, averting his gaze from where it had settled on where he assumed Aerion’s eyes to be. He glanced at Aerion’s thigh instead. It must be hurting him, standing so still above Dunk. He should sit down, like Dunk is. That would help, he was sure. Aerion could sit here in the water with Dunk. The water was cool and Dunk could run his hands over-

What was he thinking?

Aerion scoffed above him.

“Did you get even dumber in the last couple days? What, did I knock your brain loose in the trial?”

Dunk tried to follow what he was saying. He really did, but he had a hard time forming a clear thought. Was the fever back? Had it ever gone away? Dunk flexed his feet. They felt numb and ached something fierce. He blinked.

“Hm. No,” he rumbled quietly. His brain was perfectly fine. It was merely cooking slightly within his skull. Dunk huffed a low laugh at the thought. The fever was most definitely back. His ears were ringing.

Before him, Aerion slowly sat down. Right in the place Dunk had rested only moments before. For some reason, that made Dunk’s heart thump in his chest. Aerion let out a quiet grunt, never taking his eyes off Dunk. He must be in considerable pain, just like Dunk was. The wounds, inflicted by him, must be aching like his own. Every inch of his skin must be sore, the gashes and cuts throbbing in tune with his heart. Dunk wanted to see which part of him hurt the most. Was is his thigh? His head? Or his shoulder that Dunk hat almost dislocated while rolling around in the mud, trying to get the upper hand?

“Fucking hell. What is wrong with you?”, Aerion asked, hissing through his teeth. He was still staring. The sun was no longer right behind the man, so Dunk could make out his delicate features. Sharp cheekbones were highlighted by sunlight, accenting his violet eyes that seemed almost translucent in the approaching dusk. It had startled him the first time they had met, how such cruel words could come out of such a beautiful man. How could a royal, a prince, throw such vicious words about, no regard for the hurt they cause? Aerion reveled in it, really. His eyes sparkled in delight when he saw just how deep his words cut.

Dunk dipped deeper into the water. He was feeling incredibly hot once again, his skin prickling. He wanted to dip his whole head underwater but was afraid that Aerion might never let him come up for air again. Such vulnerability he could not allow himself around the other man. Instead, Dunk began slowly swishing his arms back and forth again, hidden by the streams surface, he hoped.

Aerion was staring at Dunk, a puzzled expression adorned his face. He seemed to be confused, even irritated, as he observed Dunk’s shoulders moving gently side to side.

“Answer me”, the man commanded, annoyance ringing clear in his voice. Aerion had settled down in much the same position as Dunk was in the water. Feet crossed in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. It made the muscles in Aerion’s upper arms stand out. Dunk couldn't tear his eyes away.

“Fine. I’m fine”, Dunk stammered. He didn’t want to anger the man. Not so soon after the fight. If he had a few more days to recover, then he would be able to throw a few punches, make Aerion regret having challenged him. But right now, he couldn’t image getting up any time soon. He could not possibly rise up to any of Aerion’s clumsily thrown out challenges.

Dunk’s feet were starting to numb. He knew he should get out of the water soon. It was too cold to stay submerged for longer periods of time, even with a fever wreaking havoc in his body. It would mean going near Aerion, though, which Dunk was reluctant to risk. The man would probably stab him in the leg on principle alone.

Against his better judgment, a small smile stretched across Dunk’s face. Hot. He was so hot.

“Whatever, you dumb fool. You’re not worth my time anyways.”

That was unnecessarily mean, Dunk thought. He hadn’t even said anything. Now it was his turn to cock his head to the side, imitating Aerion’s earlier move.

“Mean”, Dunk mumbled, having decided to get out of the water at last. Screw a stabbing in the leg. If he didn’t get up now, he might never be able to. The numbness in his feet was slowly spreading up towards his shins and his fingers were starting to tingle too. Slowly, Dunk shifted in the stream until he could comfortably heft himself up. The dizziness and nausea from earlier had returned in full force and he began to feel even hotter the moment his torso rose out of the water. Aerion flinched the slightest bit as he saw Dunk move unexpectedly. He evidently hadn’t anticipated it, as his body stilled and he slowly shifted one of his hands to his hips. He must have a dagger hidden there, just like Dunk had predicted. As he stood up, diluted drops of blood emerged from the wound on his side and slowly dripped down his hip. He saw Aerion follow their path with his eyes, pupils dilating the further down they trickled before disappearing within the wet fabric of his pants.

Dunk tried to step around the prince as he approached the river bank, yet bushes on each side made the endeavor difficult. With a resigned nod of his head, he stepped up on the grassy shore and plopped himself down next to Aerion. It was much closer than he expected, their shoulders almost touching. Water dropped from the ends of Dunk’s hair, dripping down his neck and making him shudder.

They were now both facing the river, their backs to the sun.

“What the fuck?”, Aerion muttered to himself. He seemed so utterly baffled by the act, no cutting remark could make its way past his lips. With wide eyes, he regarded Dunk.

“Are you in your right mind?”

The question was meant to be cutting, to be spiteful, but in Aerion’s surprise, it came across more perplexed than anything.

“Hm… No, I don’t think so”, Dunk responded. He could physically feel the fever making its way through his body. His thoughts were hazy and he had trouble concentrating on anything other than what was immediately in front of him. Next to him, Aerion was giving off an unnatural warmth that made him shiver. Truly a dragon, Dunk thought to himself. He didn’t move away and Aerion didn’t respond.

“What were you looking for?”, Dunk asked as the silence between them stretched thin.

“What makes you think I care to tell you anything?”, Aerion huffed, though the bite behind his words was missing.

Dunk hesitated a moment, before he relented.

“Fair.” He glanced at Aerion from the corner of his eye. He didn’t look at Dunk, his gaze fixed to the water. The last rays of sunshine were glimmering in the cool surface and the sound of rustling leaves rang through the clearing. Dunk stretched his legs long, the soles of his feet barely brushing the water. He wondered what Aerion was thinking. He seemed to be deep in thought, glaring straight ahead. He was unnaturally still next to Dunk, as if any tiny movement would make him snap and rip Dunk throat out. The tension in his muscles was palpable.

Dunk was reminded of the trial. Of Aerion’s manic grin and his greedy enthusiasm to kill Dunk in front of an audience. He couldn’t forget the harsh pants coming out of the man ‘s mouth, shaky from exhaustion but as vigorous as ever. Dunk could feel the raw force behind Aerion’s punches and hits with every breath.

He should hate him for what he did. For what he made him do. And yet.

And yet.

Dunk couldn’t look away.

Tension was building in the air between them. Neither dared to move, least of all Dunk himself. He didn’t want to disturb the silence, this tentative peace between them that made his heart thump in his chest. He didn’t trust this. He couldn’t trust this. He knew what Aerion was capable of, the deceit and vicious wickedness that delighted the prince and made him laugh maniacally. Dunk needed to remember that.

Next to him, Aerion was stiff as a plank of wood. Even his hands were rigidly interlaced on his knees. Dunk thought of nudging him with his knee, just for the sake of it. Maybe he would let out another baffled huff, looking at Dunk with mortification for the disrespectful act. Dunk giggled lightly. His head was spinning and nausea was making his stomach cramp as he slowly leaned back on his hands, imitating his earlier position. This way, he had a perfect view of Aerion’s tense back where a bead of sweat was traveling down the nape of his neck.

Aerion slowly turned his head towards Dunk, his eyes grazing Dunk’s naked chest quickly. Dunk would have missed it, had he not been so aware of the other man’s every movement.

“You’re red in the face. Are you having a stroke?”

A condescending sneer followed the question. In an instant, the calm stasis they had found themselves snapped. Amusement glittered in Aerion’s eyes as he turned to fully face Dunk. “If so, please die quickly. I truly cannot be bothered.”

“Die?”, Dunk mumbled, fever making his words come out slurred, “You were the one that yielded.”

Aerion froze next to him. Only after a moment did it become clear to Dunk what exactly he had just said. His eyes widened.

“I-“

“You insolent fucking peasant! Are you such a proud oaf you have the need to boast about? The only reason you won this godsdamned trial was because of your monstrous size”, Aerion hissed the words out between gritted teeth, his voice so quiet Dunk had to concentrate to hear him.

It had always fascinated Dunk how well spoken and quiet Aerion’s voice was. He didn’t tend to yell, his calm, cold words enough to instill fear in the people around him. Dunk guessed that this is what true power was. Aerion didn’t need to flaunt his superiority, he didn’t need to proclaim it at every turn. His standing was clear to everyone around him. Unlike Dunk, the prince didn’t need to prove himself, so sure was Aerion that everyone knew exactly who he was. He exerted power through silence and control, yelling would only diminish his authority.

“I wasn’t thinking-“

“Oh, of course. You never do, do you? You are merely capable of clumsily stumbling about, punching princes, and defending the honor of traitorous whores.” Aerion leaned forward, his face close to Dunk’s now. The anger was clear to see on his face, hatred and something else entirely glimmering behind the man’s violet eyes. Aerion licked his lips, his tongue quickly darting out of his mouth. Dunk couldn’t even pretend to not be watching the move, his gaze flicking down before hurriedly snapping back up. Aerion’s eyes narrowed.

Dunk’s thoughts were hazy and he had trouble keeping up with Aerion. He should ask the healer for a remedy to cure his fever when he got back. It must be quite high by now, as his limbs were starting to ache more and more and his skin felt stretched tight.

“Tanselle is not a whore”, Dunk grit out, he was trying to keep his voice low but the words came out more forceful than he had meant them to.

“You are still protecting her? What for? I was told she left before the sun had chance to rise, off to gods know where. I’m sorry to say, but your precious tramp left you with naught but a glance back”, Aerion taunted, his tone ugly and malicious.

Dunk wanted to punch him. He could strange him for uttering those despicable words. How dare Aerion speak of Tanselle this way. Him. He was the most dishonorable, vile man Dunk had ever had the misfortune of meeting. His nostrils flared as he took a breath, desperately trying to gain back some amount of self-control, lest he actually slap the prince and land himself back in the dungeons.

They were close now, eyes fixed on each other. There were only a few inches between their heads. Dunk leaned further forward, glaring straight into those violet depths. This close, he could clearly see the flawless skin on Aerion’s face. There was not a single scar anywhere. How was it possible for such a monster to be so inhumanly pretty?

Dunk clenched his hands into fists.

“What is your problem, your grace?” Dunk growled lowly. The title came out as a sarcastic snarl that nobody could mistake for anything but plain disrespect. The throbbing in Dunk’s head was getting worse.

“My problem? My problem?”, Aerion was seething now.

Dunk knew he had really fucked up. He had really done it this time. He would be beheaded, maybe hanged in the town square. A cold shiver ran down his back. He could already imagine Aerion’s triumphant grin as they brought the cleaver down. Gods… he was truly done for.

“You are my fucking problem, you big fucking oaf!” Dunk had never heard a man of such high standing swear quite this much. Surprisingly, he thought, it suited the prince well. Dunk couldn’t help but let his gaze flick down to his neck, where a slight sheen of sweat had settled down. The skin looked almost translucent, so delicate Dunk could see blue veins snaking their way down to the collar of his shirt.

In his rage, Aerion had leaned even closer towards Dunk’s face. He could feel the prince’s breath on his nose.

Dunk kept quiet, trying to control his breathing. The closeness to the prince was making his head swim. He smelled good, like healing oils, blood, and something that was entirely him. It was intoxicating. He tried to shake himself out of it, but had trouble forming a clear thought. Dunk wanted to grab Aerion, to shake him until he could see the wrong of his ways. He wanted to push him down and-

“Every time you turn up, shit just starts happening”, Aerion hissed, interrupting Dunk’s train of thought. “You’re fucking infuriating. You’re… fuck!” Aerion ripped his gaze from Dunk’s face. It had traveled down to his lips while he had been cursing him out.

“Fuck you!” Aerion stood up abruptly, taking a few steps back until he wasn’t so breathtakingly close anymore. With a last glance down at Dunk, the prince turned in a surprisingly smooth motion and walked away. His limp was worse now, but he didn’t make a sound as he disappeared between the trees, his uneven gait fading quickly.

Dunk was glued to the ground, stunned. He hadn’t expected Aerion to make such a hurried exit, as if he couldn’t stand being in Dunk’s presence any longer.

How was Dunk infuriating the prince? He didn’t even do all that much. He simply couldn’t stand by and let Aerion break Tanselle’s fingers. What king of knight would he be, if he let harm come to innocent people? She was only a puppeteer who didn’t know any better. Dunk couldn’t see her hurt. He wouldn’t stand for it.

Dunk decided to get up too. His wet pants were clinging uncomfortably to his legs and would take ages to dry, he knew. He would go back to the healers tent and ask for an oil that could keep his fever down. The constant ache in his body was getting annoying and he could use a good night’s sleep. Dunk groaned and got up, slowly following after Aerion.

Chapter Text

It was a week after Dunk had met Aerion at the stream that he finally felt strong enough to leave Ashford Meadow behind. His wounds had mostly closed up, the fever had broken, and with a few fresh bandages wrapped around the worst of his injuries, he felt well enough to travel again. And if his body grew dizzy and weak from time to time, then he just had to deal with it. He couldn’t stand the constant ruckus and loud voices droning on outside his tent anymore. He much preferred the open road and quiet fields to surround him while traveling through the kingdoms he usually frequented.

While many looked down upon hedge knights, Dunk had a hard time imagining being tied down to one place, serving only one lord for the rest of his life. His childhood in Fleebottom was bad enough as it is, hiding under stables and dirty huts in the hope nobody would rob him at night and steal the little money he made selling scraps he found during the day. It had been a harsh life, one he gladly left behind when he had met Ser Arlan and started following him. He truly had been Dunk’s salvation, an opportunity to discover the realm and leave his old, dirty life behind.

Dunk was glad to be able to saddle Chestnut and Thunder, who Egg had sneakily hidden after Dunk had been thrown in the dungeons. Where exactly they had stayed, he didn’t know and he had been too ashamed to ask Egg about their whereabouts after coming back to his senses. The boy, the prince, had done enough for him. Dunk didn’t need to know everything. The horses had been in good hands and that was all that mattered to him in any case.

As he was strapping the last of his meager belongings to Chestnut’s saddle, the loud trampling of hoofs drew his attention. As he turned, he saw two knights of the King’s Guard approaching, their white armor shining in the sun. Their horses had evidently been brushed to perfection so that their coat was shimmering like water beneath the riders. Within moments, they had reached Dunk and stopped mere feet in front of him.

“Prince Maekar has asked for you, hedge knight.”

That made Dunk freeze. He had thought the man had departed with the first half of the Targaryen party that was headed for Summerhall. They had left days ago, while Dunk was still being treated for his infection and the resulting fever. He had been told that both Daeron and Egg were seen departing with the caravan, being watched closely by members of the King’s Guard and advisors of Prince Maekar alike, lest they made a break for it again and disappeared into neighboring villages.

It seemed that their father had stayed behind. To do what exactly, Dunk did not know.He nodded solemnly at the knights. If Maekar wanted to speak to Dunk, he would of course comply. He has made enough enemies for a lifetime, after all.

He quickly made sure his horses were tied securely to the elm tree’s branches and then turned to the men, looking up to await their next command.

“Come, then,” barked the taller of the two, swiftly turning his horse and marching towards Ashford castle. The horse’s tail swished with the abrupt movement.

Dunk hesitated for a second before he hurriedly followed after the knight. He truly did not want to make them any more annoyed than they already seemed to be. He figured they wanted to leave this wretched place just as much as he did.

After taking a few steps, Dunk dared to take a look over his shoulder, seeing that the other guard followed him at a short distance, his pace a bit slower than his partner’s to make sure he had a good view of Dunk at any time.

They did not want him to run, Dunk realized. A shiver ran down his back.

When they arrived at the castle, Dunk was lead through a confusing array of corridors and large doorways. He would never be able to find his way out of this maze without help. He had never had the best sense of direction and had never spent much time inside a keep before. He hoped someone would show him the way back. If he lived that long, that is.

Would Maekar order his death so soon after the trial? Even though he had won?

It was certainly a possibility, Dunk thought. The events of the last week had taught him that a prince’s temper was not to be underestimated. Especially not that of a Targaryen.

After what seemed like forever, the two knights escorting him stopped in front of a large door, motioning with their hands for Dunk to enter. Their impatience was palpable in the air, Dunk could almost taste it. He followed their command after a short moment of hesitation. He really did not look forward to whatever was to come.

With a quiet click, the door closed behind him. Only one of the King’s Guard, the tall one that had led him here, had followed Dunk inside and now took up his post next to the door.

Dunk took a few steps further inside.

The room was gloomy, the few candles that were lit were barely able to light the room and the small windows adorning one of the walls did little to illuminate the place either.

Maekar was standing by one of the windows, looking down at the busy encampment at the base of the castle. Many of the lords and ladies who had attended the tourney had started to pack up their belongings these last few days and were slowly making their way back to their homes. Dunk could hear their loud laughter even up here, high in the castle.

“My son,” Maekar spoke suddenly, “he has grown quite fond of you, Ser”.

For some reason, Dunk’s thoughts immediately jumped to Aerion, the man’s mad grin and bloodied mouth having violently carved their way into Dunk’s every waking thought.

Only after a moment did he understand that Maekar was not, in fact, talking about his second eldest son.He was talking about Egg.

Dunk should get his head checked again. He was sure that there was still something wrong with it. Maybe one of the hits he had received during the trial had knocked something lose in there. That must the reason why he was still thinking about Aerion, the man constantly poking and prodding at every corner of his mind.

After a moment, Dunk asked: “Your grace?”

“He has told me about his time with you, about how much he has learned.”

Dunk regarded the white-haired man thoughtfully.

He had enjoyed having the young boy as his squire. After Ser Arlan’s death, Dunk had been alone for quite a while, traveling only with his three horses and the summer breeze for company. He hadn’t realized how lonely his journey had become until he had met Egg. Over the course of the last weeks, he had grown rather accustomed to the boy’s presence and to his disobedience and cheeky remarks that, more often than not, made Dunk sort out a laugh.

A small smile stretched across his face.

“I have learned just as much from him, your grace,” Dunk responded.

He had come to truly appreciate Egg’s companionship and had started to miss him greatly these last days while Dunk was out with a fever and Egg was preoccupied with his princely duties. Dunk wished he had had time to say goodbye to him before he had left for Summerhall, but when Dunk had learned of his departure, the young prince was long gone.

Maekar regarded Dunk with a long, considering look, then let out an exhausted sigh.

“My son needs guidance,” he continued, “he needs someone to teach him how to stand tall, how to fight, how to take care of himself”.

That made Dunk falter. It slowly began to dawn on him just why he was summoned before the prince. His breath caught in his chest.

“It is time he was a squire,” Maekar stated, “but he tells me he will serve no knight but you, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk swallowed, slowly turning his gaze towards the powerful man in front of him. Maekar had moved while talking to him, his back now leaned against one of the pillars that adorned the lowly lit room. The two were closer now and Dunk could see how difficult it was for Maekar to acknowledge his youngest son’s desires to squire for him. The man was evidently not pleased.

“Will you have him?”, he asked nevertheless.

Dunk had expected the question, yet it still made his heart stutter. He couldn’t imagine it was easy for Maekar to ask this of him. The man’s eyes alone told him that he wanted Dunk to refuse, that this was merely a formality he had most likely promised Egg he would fulfill.

Dunk should take the hint. He should thank the prince for the kind offer and then decline the opportunity. It was expected of him. It was an empty proposal, one not meant to be taken seriously. What use did a wealthy prince have for a lowly hedge knight that was not only inexperienced, but also almost killed his other son?

None whatsoever, Dunk thought.

Even so, he hesitated.

“What do you say, Ser?”, Maekar inquired, his voice tired. It seemed the man was ready to leave this whole affair behind him as quickly as possible.

Dunk was about to follow the prince’s lead and refuse. He had already opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue, when he abruptly thought about what awaited him in the future, when he finally left Ashford Meadow behind. He thought about the lonely road in front of him. The thought of the disgruntled farmers and villagers that, even though they needed his help, were unwilling to accept it and treated him with disdain and contempt. He thought of the cold nights that would come with winter mere months away and the lack of food that came hand in hand with the change of seasons.

The impending loneliness made his heart stutter and he realized that he couldn’t refuse. He simply couldn’t.

Dunk had always followed orders. He had always been a good lad that did as he was told. Even Ser Arlan had always claimed that Dunk had no evil bone in his body and that had his heart in the right place.

So it came as a surprise even to himself when he blurted out: “It would be an honor, your grace.” 

In this moment, all thoughts of Aerion, of Egg, of knightly honor, and of expected humility disappeared from his mind. For the first time in his life, Dunk made a selfish decision. One that would ultimately change the course of his life, he was sure.